


(can't let this go)

by oneprotagonistshort



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Eliot hates feelings, M/M, Mosaic Timeline
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-10-20 19:01:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,211
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17627864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oneprotagonistshort/pseuds/oneprotagonistshort
Summary: Eliot’s not overthinking it. Genuinely, he’s not. He’s thinking a totally normal amount about the fact that he and Quentin hooked up. They’re saving their overthinking for the mosaic.Except Eliot is totally overthinking it.





	(can't let this go)

**Author's Note:**

> for a second I was like “is it dumb to title a fic in (lowercase parentheses)” but who the fuck cares, the world is going to end either way
> 
> much love to all of my twitter friends who haven't blocked me for my constant crying about Eliot Waugh

Eliot’s not overthinking it. Genuinely, he’s not. He’s thinking a totally normal amount about the fact that he and Quentin hooked up. They’re saving their overthinking for the mosaic.

Except Eliot is totally overthinking it.

It’s not like Eliot to even care enough to overthink anything, but Quentin isn’t and never has been just “anything.” Eliot cares about him more than pretty much everything else in his life and honestly it’s kind of gross. His endless affection for Quentin had snuck up on him, coiling in his chest and striking at the absolute worst moments. Like a snake or some other gross shit you’d see on the Discovery Channel. Eliot hasn’t watched the Discovery Channel in years, he has better things to do.

Except right now he doesn’t, not really. The mosaic consumes their lives and it’s monotonous, mind-numbing, and seemingly endless, all things that Eliot hates. So for lack of anything better to do, Eliot places and replaces tiles and overthinks it.

“El?” Quentin’s voice interrupts his train of thought. “That’s supposed to be a green one.”

Right. Green. Whatever. Eliot changes the tile.

It’s Quentin’s turn on the ladder, a break system they’d developed when hours of being on their knees all day every day had become too much. Eliot can think of a thousand more interesting things to do on his knees, but instead of suggesting them he just follows directions and places the tiles where Quentin tells him to.

_Green, blue, red, green, green, green, yellow, blue…_

They’d come up with ways to keep their minds from atrophying completely while going through the same routine day after day after day, but none of them are distracting enough to keep Eliot from overthinking. Not for the first time, he wishes he could get his hands on some sort of Fillorian podcast.

He sits back on his heels, rolling a cramp out of his neck. “Can we take a break?”

They shouldn’t, they’re not even halfway through this one, but Quentin just agrees and hops off the ladder as if it’s nothing.

“How many did we do yesterday?” Eliot asks, because sometimes it’s easy to lose track.

“Ten,” Quentin says, taking a drink from the flask. It’s water, at least for now, and as he wipes a stray drop off his mouth he hands it to Eliot. “We started early, remember?”

Eliot takes the flask, watching Quentin’s hand run along his lips, and wonders when the hell every-fucking-thing Quentin did became so distracting. 

He remembers now, though. Ten had been good work for one day. “Can we take a break?” he asks again, and before Quentin can point out that they’re already taking a break, “Like a real break, just for the afternoon.”

He’s pretty sure Quentin has developed some kind of sense for when Eliot’s being lazy versus actually needing to step away. He can tell by the way Quentin is looking at him that his exhaustion must be evident. No one has ever known him so well, not even Margo, and it’s actually really unsettling. At least, it should be.

“A break sounds good,” Quentin says, deciding that Eliot must really need to step away. “I can actually cook something rather than magic up whatever’s easy.”

Quentin is an absolute shit cook and a year of practice has not made him any better. Eliot will never say a word.

“Sounds good,” Eliot lies as Quentin disappears into the cottage. They both like being outside as much as possible, so Eliot collapses onto the bed, knowing he’ll be back soon. The blanket is soft but all Eliot can think about while running his hands over the fabric is the way Quentin had grabbed onto it for dear life when they’d… well. That’s definitely overthinking it.

When Quentin comes back outside and tries to start a fire he misses and hits some leaves instead and his annoyed swearing as he tries to put them out makes Eliot smile. It’s _endearing_. Eliot is clearly infatuated, and it’s disgusting.

Infatuated. The word strikes Eliot clear in the chest, replacing that weird coiling feeling with fluttering. He isn’t just _infatuated_ with Quentin, he has a giant fucking crush. He’s _had_ a giant fucking crush for shit, how long? Months? If he’s being honest with himself it’s probably been since the day they’d met, but the thought makes him dizzy. There’s a reason he’s never honest with himself.

So he has a crush on Quentin. Apparently that’s nothing new. Except Eliot is not the type to deny himself anything he wants, and he _wants_ Quentin, maybe more than he’s ever wanted anything. He sighs and looks to the sky, wondering how it’s come to this.

He can feel Quentin watching him. He thinks he’s being subtle about it, but Quentin has probably never done a single subtle thing in his entire goddamn life. Eliot kind of loves it. Quentin is having more success with the fire though, and Eliot doesn’t miss how quickly he looks away when he thinks he’s been caught.

 _Well shit,_ Eliot thinks. Quentin worrying about him is stupidly cute and Eliot doesn’t know what to do about that. He doesn’t do feelings, he never has, and with good reason. Feelings are for weak and naive idiots, and Eliot is none of those things.

Still.

“Hey Q,” he says, not really knowing what he’s going to say, just that he needs to say _something_ before he either explodes or tells Quentin everything. He’s not sure which would be worse. Quentin looks at him, frowning like he’s worried something might be wrong, and Eliot completely loses whatever half-formed thought he’d been trying to come up with. He pauses with his mouth open, quickly shuts it as soon as he realizes, and doesn’t say anything else.

Quentin is looking at him kind of sideways, but must decide it’s not worth calling Eliot out on being weird. It looks like he’s going to make some sort of over-seasoned quinoa and Eliot braces himself for when it’s finished. 

These are desperate times. Eliot is having feelings, Quentin is cooking, and the mosaic is just sitting there, untouched and incomplete. It’s a trainwreck waiting to happen. Eliot thinks of the saying, desperate times call for desperate measures or some shit like that. Eliot doesn’t do desperate.

“Hey Q,” he says again, surer this time as he pulls himself off the bed.

Quentin doesn’t look up. “Yeah El?” he asks, and then Eliot’s crossing fucking mosaic in long strides and hauling Quentin up by the collar. 

Desperate times. Desperate measures.

He kisses Quentin long and slow, pouring every stupid fucking feeling he has into it. It feels surprisingly good. 

Quentin pulls back first and Eliot is actually a little afraid to look at him. He does though, because having feelings doesn’t mean he’s a coward. Quentin is smiling and Eliot is smiling back, not able to stop himself. It somehow doesn’t feel gross anymore.

He only gets to enjoy it for a second before Quentin pulls him back in to kiss him again. It’s easy and natural in a way that few things in Eliot’s life ever are. It’s amazing.

He closes his eyes and leans into it, glad he doesn’t have to overthink it anymore.


End file.
